


One For Every Moment

by Louffox



Category: Jacksepticeye (RPF), Markiplier (RPF), Youtube RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Fireflies, Fluff, M/M, Septiplier - Freeform, Sunshine Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 13:29:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4181592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Louffox/pseuds/Louffox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark was minding his own business, and Jack was trying to mind his business. One just wanted a rocking horse, the other wanted to not fall from the sky, thank you very much, I was here first so bugger off. Medieval AU!</p>
            </blockquote>





	One For Every Moment

**Author's Note:**

> I already posted this on Tumblr but I like keeping a copy of all my stuff on AO3. Stuff gets drowned out on Tumblr sometimes and I know how to find things quickly and easily on here. So yeah! Enjoy! (My tumblr is fauxfoxfanatics.tumblr.com if anyone was curryous.)

Jack slung his ax over his shoulder and headed into the woods, whistling jauntily. It was a good thing he was an excellent woodcarver- he was able to buy his neat, not hunt it, and he was a terrible hunter. Something about being loud.

He couldn’t help it- he loved sound. Silence was dull and made him fidgety.

He was looking for the perfect tree- black walnut, preferably. Jen Heely was due to have a baby, and he wanted to carve a rocking horse for  the child, as the Heely family were renown horse breeders. They had bought nearly all their furniture from him, often invited him to dinner, and lived nearby. Not as close to the woods, of course, but near Jack’s giant cabin.

Few folk liked the woods, but Jack found it to inspire creativity rather than fear.

He made for the river, thinking he’d seen one there. At least, something with catkins. He didn’t like to plot out the forest, but enjoyed the adventure of seeking out each tree as he needed it. He passed through the undergrowth easily with his long strides, still whistling happily. When he got to the river, he decided to follow it upstream. Many people from the town considered the forest to be a place of dread and mystery. They claimed it was dark- Jack waxed poetic about the dappled light, shifting smatterings of green and gold. They said it was full of monsters, like giant insects and wolves. Jack spent long minutes admiring perfect spider webs, dewed and lacy.

There had been an incident years ago at the river. Folk had started to get over their fear and press in, but a young boy drowned in the river, and the woods immediately regained the air of terror. Jack was a bit disappointed- it wasn’t a curse, like some folk said, it wasn’t a monster- there was no fanged nereid, no dark-haired sorcerer, no red-eyed beast. It was just a very rapid-moving river and it got deep quickly, and someone hadn’t been paying attention to their child.

The rushing water drowned out his whistling, and he enjoyed the racket of it. There was a bridge a ways up from his point- if he hadn’t found the walnut tree by then, he’d lunch there. He always carried food with him into the woods. After the third time getting lost and finally getting home, hungry and irritable, he’d started bringing a pack of snacks with him every time.

When he got to the bridge, he hadn’t found the tree yet, so he sat and enjoyed a lunch of cheese and olives rolled up in thin slices of meat, and bread with oil, and a fat ripe peach. He was a quite skilled woodcarver, and was paid handsomely for his craft. Good thing- despite his reedy stature, he was perpetually hungry.

Resuming his exploring, he startled a hare, walked through a massive spiderweb and spent five minutes peeling the thin strands from his face with disgust, but still didn’t find the walnut. He did come across a good-looking mahogany tree and considered using that instead, but the Heely folks were most known for their black horses, glossy powerful beasts, dark and strong.

When he finally found the walnut tree, he sighed with relief, dropping his ax and sweeping his cap from his head, scratching his scalp pleasantly. At last. He glanced at the sky- he’d have time before dark to fell it and section it, and tomorrow he could begin the task of carving it. Cart nor wagon could navigate the brush and close trees, and a mule wouldn’t cross the river. So often he carved right in the woods, where he cut the tree down, and then lugged it back, unless it was extremely large or heavy furniture- then he would make the parts and lug them back bit by bit, then assemble it.

This was to be a small, hardy rocking horse for a child, so he would make it there and then bring it back, and return for any sections remaining to be used for other projects.

He took a few deep draughts from his waterskin, then dropped his pack and hefted his ax. He took the first swing, thunking the blade solidly in the base, taking note of the feel of the tree. It was solid and healthy and strong, and large as well- he would have lots of leftover.

“Hey! Don't”

He nearly let go of the ax, which would’ve been terrible, as he was on the backswing and letting go would’ve sent it spinning away into the woods.

“The fuck?” he cried, craning his neck, squinting up into the tree.

“Excuse you. I was here first. Shouldn’t you check to make sure you’re not chopping down a tree when there’s someone in it?”

Jack’s mouth opened slightly with amazement- there was a man up in the tree, telling him off like an overlarge squirrel.

“What… what’re you doing up there?” Jack shouted back, confused and irritated.  _Spend all morning searching for the right tree and finally find it, just to discover some madman has nested in it. Wonderful._

“I was here first. Find your own tree,” the man said with a grin.

“Uh… Well…” Jack was completely at a loss. He’d brought down dozens of trees. This was his living. He’d never faced a situation like this. “I, er… I need this tree.”

“So do I. Scram.”

“No! I mean, I just… I’ve spent all day looking for this. I need a black walnut to make a rocking horse. See, the folks who live nearby are so polite, and they’re about to have a child, and I wanted to make them a gift…” he trailed off as the man’s face remained impassive.  _Reasoning with a madman in a tree. That’ll do the trick,_  he thought, frustrated with himself and with the madman.

“Too bad. Make it out of something else.”

“What? No. Go climb some other tree,” Jack said belligerently, gesturing at the woods around him. “There’s plenty others.”

“But I like this one.”

“What, are you friends or something?” Jack asked sarcastically.

“Yes,” the man said dryly. He grabbed a catkin and attempted to throw it at him, but it was light and drifted down, far off target.

“Come down and let me chop this tree down!” he shouted impatiently.

“No!”

“Yes!”

“No!”

“ _Alright, enough_!” Jack snorted, and swung at the base again. “You’re coming down, one way or another!”

“Hey! You can’t chop this down, I’m still up here!”

“And you’ll be down here soon enough!” Jack shot back, chopping in earnest now.

“Like hell I will be,” the madman snorted, and that was when the noise started.

Rustling. Motion, fast and faint.

A hurricane of birds were suddenly upon Jack. He yelped, swinging his arms, trying to shoo them like he would blackflies, but they battered at him with an unnatural intent. They didn’t peck him or claw him, just beat at him with strong, blunt wings. He thrashed, but quickly gave up, swinging a hand down to grab a strap of his pack, and took off in a blind run.

They fell away from him, one by one, and by the time he was free of them, he was at the bridge. He scowled and brushed feathers from his clothes, startled and a little angry.

That man had done that. He’d summoned the birds.

He was a sorcerer.

And that should’ve frightened Jack- he’d just made enemies with a sorcerer. But he was mostly just annoyed that he’d been bested, and he hadn’t gotten the tree.

He found the mahogany tree again and brought that down with swift, angry strokes.

Weeks went by, and he didn’t cross the river. The Heely child was born- a girl, to the apprehension and delight of the new parents- and he finished the horse, and started and finished a bench, and spent a weekend in town, drinking merrily with friends and restocking his pantry. He didn’t mention the sorcerer in the tree, but thought about him frequently. He had the narrow gaze of someone from far east, dark hair, and a wide, expressive mouth. And such a snippy angry mouth.

A sorcerer! Most would feel lucky that they’d survived to tell the tale. Jack half wanted to see him again. The folk in the town considered magic to be dangerous, dark, a fast-track to hell. Jack considered it a mystery. He’d never had a chance to ask a sorcerer all the questions he had, which was obvious, because he’d never seen one before. But now, he’d blown his chance, tried to hack down the tree the sorcerer was up in a fit of anger, and gotten attacked by birds.

Eventually, he was commissioned to build a matching set of dressers, and they requested dark wood. He immediately thought of the black walnut, and headed out with his ax and his pack and a certainty that he was going to cut down that tree.

When he got there, he hesitated, then set his ax down. And then he sat down beside it, back-to the tree, and put his pack in his lap.

He pulled out and unwrapped several thick slices of pork, cooked crisp and fragrant with grease. He rolled the first slice up with cheese, and took a bite, humming with pleasure.

“The hell are you doing back? Didn’t get your lesson the first time?” The voice was that familiar smooth baritone, heavy with skepticism.

“No, I just thought this would be a nice place to have lunch,” he said pleasantly. He rolled up another piece of pork with cheese, and held it above his head without looking up. “Want some?”

There was silence, and then he felt the morsel removed from his hand. He glanced upward-

-and did a double-blink as he saw a cluster of butterflies carrying it up.  The sorcerer was lounging in the branches, and reached out a hand to lazily take the butterflies’ cargo, and took a bite. His brows went up.

“Mmmm. Rude tree-hacker you may be, but this is delicious,” he said, nodding.

“I select pork from the pig’s back, and then brine it, then smoke it, and grill it in maple syrup,” Jack explained. “I don’t often cook for people- I’m glad you like it.”

“This doesn’t make up for trying to knock down this tree while I was in it,” the sorcerer added. Jack snorted.

“I figured. Do you live up there, or what?”

“No. This portion of the forest is mine, though, and I sensed when you arrived, and came here to see what you were doing. Imagine my surprise when you started attacking my watch post,” he sniffed.

“I had no idea you were up there!”

“But when you did, that didn’t stop you, did it?” Jack scowled, but his eyes went wide when the man was suddenly settling down on the ground beside him.

“How the-,”

“How did you think I got up there in the first place? Climbed?” the man snorted.

Jack stared at him wordlessly and passed him more lunch.

“So… have you always been a sorcerer?” Jack asked finally, after a few content minutes of two men sharing a meal.

“A sorcerer? No, I’ve never been a sorcerer! They’re gross, all putrescine and cadaverine, maggots and shit. Ick, bleh,” the man spat. “I’m a witch.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Holy hell, what do they teach kids in school these days? Sorcerers use the dead to do their work- either through reanimating bodies or controlling spirits. And then there’s mages, who use words and books, and sometimes demons. And then there’s witches, like me. We’re all clean magic, we don’t do anything unnatural, we just bend the natural to our will. Using familiars, for example. My specialty is all things winged,” he said, gesturing at the butterflies that lingered.

“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t know there was a difference… and I’d always thought witches were women who slept with the devil,” he said apologetically.

“Whoa, hey, whoa, hey! Not a woman, not sleeping with the devil,” the man laughed.

“So you can, what, control animals?”

“Sure. Though ‘control’ sounds awful- I’m only asking them to do things, they can say no, but witches are almost god-like to animals. When they do things for us, their land and lives are usually blessed with goodness. As in, we take care of them, we protect them. They carry things up to the top of the tree for me, or attack strang ax-bearing-men for me, and I keep their trees from getting chopped down, I keep all the plants growing healthy and keep away any blights or scourges. Everyone wins.”

“And that? How you got up the tree and down?” Jack asked.

“Manipulation of the air. Each witch has an element, generally. Mine is air. Hence, everything winged.”

Jack shivered. “Heights are terrifying. I can’t get past the third branch, I get so scared,” he admitted.

“Baby,” the man teased.

“I’m Jack, by the way,” he said, suddenly realizing they hadn’t been introduced.

“Mark.”

“Why are you answering my questions?” Jack suddenly asked. “A few weeks ago I tried to chop you down.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Because you chased me away with birds!”

Mark grinned. “You could’ve killed the birds. You could’ve come back with fire and burned the tree down. You could’ve tried today, but instead you gave me lunch. And that answers your question as well- it’s the conduct of sharing a meal. You talk. That’s the way of the world. If I asked you questions, you’d answer them, too.”

Jack thought about that, and nodded- it made sense.

So they continued to share both food and talk. Jack learned that Mark was young, by witch standards, early in adulthood, which meant a few centuries old. Mark loved the stars and feared water- he’d made a boon with a few travellers decades ago, asking them to build the very bridge Jack used to cross the river, in exchange for safe passage through the rest of the woods. The first time he’d tried to fly, he’d gone far too fast and had nearly impaled himself on a branch, resulting in scars all over his stomach.

Jack told him about how his father was a commander in the king’s army, and his mother was a simple maid, but he’d rejected the life of fighting and the king had allowed his commander’s son to leave, to find a small village and take up woodcarving. He’d taught himself the art, and didn’t want to do anything else in his life. He loved cooking, and wished he could cook for others more often. They discovered they both loved ale- the darker the better, they agreed- and decided Mark would visit Jack next week, to drink together.

By the time Jack decided to head back, the sun was setting and it was getting dark rapidly.

“I’m gonna have a hell of a time trying to get home,” Jack grumbled, getting up and putting his pack on.

“You could’ve left any time,” Mark retorted.

“Just up and walk away in the middle of visiting with someone, yes, that’s polite.”

“About as polite as trying to chop down a tree with someone in it.”

“Point made,” Jack laughed. “I’ll see you next week. You’ll know how to find my cabin?”

“I’m a witch, Jack, I won’t have a problem,” Mark said dismissively. “Speaking of problems- here, this’ll prove I can find your cabin, and help you home.” He gestured and said a few syllables in a strange tongue, and Jack’s eyes went wide with awe.

Fireflies lifted from the grass around them, and flew down from the treetops above them, and came in from the forest around them, and formed a line of natural yellow light, heading in the direction of-

“Your cabin will be at the end of the path,” Mark said smugly. The firefly light wasn’t very bright, but there were so many of them that Jack could see his footing. The path wove through the trees, avoiding bushes and debris, and Jack grinned.

“That’s fantastic! Thanks!” he laughed, giddy at the phenomenal sight. Mark waved it off casually, but smiled, pleased with Jack’s appreciation.

So Jack returned by way of firefly light, having not gotten the wood he needed but believing he’d gotten something of much more value- a friend.

It wasn’t until he was in his cabin, in a chair in front of the fire with a bowl of warm cinnamon-sugar oatmeal in his lap and a cold glass of cider in his hand did it really hit him. He’d  _invited_ a  _witch_ to his  _house_.

He could just imagine what his Ma would say.

That night, he had turbulent dreams of crows with powerful wings carrying him high up into the sky until he was howling with fear, and he looked up and the black feathers melted away to reveal black hair and those dark eyes that seemed to look back centuries. And then he fell.

He woke up early, disoriented and restless, and went right out to start on the dresser set. He found a different tree to make it from, a tree on this side of the river, and poured himself into his work.

When the day that Mark would visit came, Jack found himself jittery and nervous. Every sound startled him, expecting it to be Mark. He forced himself to sit down and relax, taking at finishing the dressers to pass the time. His work was well-known for being lovely down to the details- he never just made a dresser or a bench or bed frame and sold it. He always finished it well, with detailed edges and elegant engravings on it. He’d started a weaving vine-and-leaf imprint pattern around the top surface, and took at that.

The work relaxed him just as he knew it would, and soon he was lost in his tools, fine blades and tiny sharp-edged spoons and a thin steel rod he heated and then held with thick gloves to score in details, etching with a perfection that bordered on obsession.

“Afternoon.” The greeting was unexpected and made Jack jump- only years of experience kept him from accidentally marring the work. He looked up and saw Mark stepping lightly down into his yard. From the air.

“Did you fly here?!” Jack cried, standing upright and wiping the sweat from his brow, putting down his tools. “Er, good afternoon to you too,” he added hastily.

“As I said the other day, witches travel in style,” Mark sniffed with faux haughtiness. His expression morphed back into a wide grin, and he stepped forward with an outstretched hand. “Good to see you again as well.”

Jack shook it, feeling his own face pull into a matching smile. “Likewise! C’mon in, I was just finishing this up.” He pulled a thick waxy blanket over the top of it to protect it from the elements, and led Mark inside.

The witch whistled, looking up at Jack’s house. “I thought you said you lived in a cabin.”

“This is a cabin,” Jack snorted, opening the door and letting Mark in first.

“This is more like a mansion. It’s huge! And you just live her all by yourself?”

“Yep!”

“Must be echoey,” Mark remarked. “Can I have a tour? I haven’t been in a mortal’s dwelling in decades. It’s strange, not having the sky above me. And the lack of motion in the air.”

“Sure! So this is the sitting room- I built everything in here myself, and built the house myself as well.”

“Incredible,” Mark said breathlessly, walking over to examine the fireplace. “How did you lift all the lumber up?”

“A crane and pulley system. Ropes and horses,” Jack said with a shrug. “Us mortals can do cool stuff too, you know.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Mark murmured, looking up at the high ceiling. The sitting room had a high roof- the upstairs was only half the house, to allow for the extensive sitting room. Jack led him into the kitchen.

“Kitchen, and dining table over there. I had help with this room- I’m not good with stonework or masonry. The O’Dare folks on the other end of town did most of it, and I just directed. I have them over every once and a while to cook for them. They have three boys and two girls, big family, rambunctious all of them. The boys are all strong, but their oldest daughter, Marcie, could best any of them with sheer strength,” Jack laughed. “The island countertop here- Marcie picked up one end of it, and two of the boys took the other end. I think Marcie might be getting married this fall, actually,” he mused. Then he shook his head. “Sorry, I’m blethering.”

But Mark was giving him an odd look. “No, I like hearing this. About normal lives and interaction. It’s all so… quaint.” He turned so his back was facing Jack, examining the water basin and the careful tiled rock around the edge of it. “You live such short lives, but you put so much meaning in it.”

“We might burn out quick, but we’re sure to burn bright,” Jack said proudly. “When was the last time you spent any time with mortals?”

Mark frowned. “It was a long time ago- sixty years, I think? And I didn’t interact with them much- I presented myself to a young woman who was digging up raspberry bushes in my forest, and told her not to be greedy, to take only half of them. She didn’t listen, she dug up all of them and took them, so I cursed her firstborn to be a kleptomaniac. Last I knew, she was chasing him down in the capital city, where he’d landed himself in jail for stealing candlesticks.”

“Klept- what?”

“Kleptomaniac. It means a compulsion to steal,” Mark grinned.

“That’s… fair,” Jack said carefully, biting his lip.

“Don’t worry, I don’t lay down curses anymore. Curses are out of style, and I’m less vengeful than I was in my youth. I felt bad about that last curse for a long time, and if you curse people now, it gets you burned at the stake,” he laughed.

“Well, that’s… nice of you.”

“It is nice. I’m nice,” Mark said confidently. Jack snorted, and they continued around the house. Jack showed him his pantry (“Good heavens, there’s enough here to feed a small family for a week!” Mark had exclaimed) and the lavatory, and showed him the bedrooms upstairs (“I live so far from everyone that when folks come to visit, they usually stay for the weekend. Everyone else is scared of the woods- they hear there’s crazy temperamental witches in there,”) and then they went back down to Jack’s front porch to sit.

Jack brought out a cask of ale and poured them both tall, frothy mugs, and they relaxed on the porch, falling into easy conversation just as they had in the forest.

“So… how did you become a witch?” Jack asked, propping his feet up on the railing of the porch.

“My mother had sex with Satan.”

“What??”

“Yeah. Papa Satan. All my power comes from him.”

Jack squinted at him. “You’re joking,” he declared.

“Of course I’m joking! I’ve never had anything to do with Satan, I don’t know if he exists, I don’t care if he exists. I was raised as a witch, and my Mom was one too,” he explained. “Most witches I know have it in their blood. Occasionally someone can become a witch, but it takes wildly specific circumstances.”

“Like what?” Jack asked curiously.

“Why? This is a pretty exclusive club, I’m not sure you’re invited, no matter how good of a cook you are,” Mark said cautiously.

“No, absolutely not. I’m happy with who I am, I love being a woodcarver and I’ve not got any dreams of becoming anything else.”

“Well, I was just making sure you knew that before you got any crazy ideas. Glad that you’re happy with your life, though- few people can see that the grass isn’t actually greener on the other side. Anyways, I’m not sure if there’s a specific recipe for becoming a witch, cause the stories I’ve heard are all varied. I’ve only heard two first-person accounts. One was on purpose- a woman stood beneath the first sliver of a waxing moon at a fork in a river, having covered herself in painted symbols in lamb’s blood, and having burned a pentagram onto the bottom of each foot. She sang the Lord’s prayer backwards for an hour and a quarter, and then fell stunned into the river, as though having received a blow to the back of the head. When she woke, several miles downstream the left fork, her hair was bone-white, the blood and burns were washed away, and she could manipulate the water with sheer will. But she said her sister repeated the entire scene the next month, and it didn’t work.”

“That’s fucking nuts,” Jack said, shaking his head.

“Mmm-hmm. She’s fucking nuts. She’s an amateur and a try-hard. If you listened to her for long enough, she’d convince you Satan is real and she’s his favorite whore. Crass, but so is she,” Mark shrugged. “The other account was an accident. The man was a shepherd. He was trying to find what was preying on his flock and tracked the creature into a cave. He said the tracks looked like wolf, and the maulings did too, but he instead met a man in the cave. He described the man to be thin to the point of skeletal, pale as snow, and with eyes that seemed too dark for his face. And wearing nothing but sheepskins. The man asked if he’d seen a wolf around, and the man stood, held out his hand, and asked the shepherd if he would share his warmth. Daniel- the shepherd- said yes, and the man took his hand, and then vanished as though he’d never been there at all. Daniel said he thought it strange and went home, and he soon discovered he could conjure fire and speak with animals.”

“Why would he say yes? Who was the guy in the cave?” Jack asked, baffled.

Mark shrugged. “Nobody knows. Daniel said he hadn’t understood the question well, but thought he meant if he’d let him stay in his barn or something. He said he was just so scared he didn’t dare say no- it wasn’t kindness like they always say in stories. Giving water to a strange old woman at a well, letting a homeless child have a meal, clothing an orphaned babe- not anything like that, it was just fear and uncertainty. Daniel reckons the wolf guy was one of the really ancient witches, but I think it was a spirit- the really ancient witches just act like the rest of us, there’s nothing special about them except they have more stories to tell. My mother is ancient, she remembers all the old dynasties and stuff, but she doesn’t hide in caves and give power to kind folk.”

“Your mother doesn’t know how people become witches?”

“Nope. Or if she does, she didn’t wanna tell me, and I’ll respect that. I don’t want a bunch of mortals clambering around trying to be witches. The crazy girl who became one of us is irritating enough- the type of folk who want to witches are fanatics. You have more respect for the craft when you’re born and raised with it, or when it comes to you as an unexpected gift.”

“But when you strive for something, and work hard for it, you respect it then too,” Jack debated lightly. Mark followed the weaving scrollwork on the side of his chair with a finger- Jack remembered etching that in.

“You made this?”

“I did. Just about everything in this house, I made.”

“That’s certainly something to respect. And to be proud of.” Mark looked at him, and the expression in his eyes was ineffable. “It intrigues me, how much detail you’ve put into all of this. Why?”

“Why?” Jack repeated, confused by the question.

“You’ll live a handful of decades and die. A decade of that is childhood. A decade on the other side, you’ll be senile. And you spend your good years on things like this. How many hours did you spend on this chair? You could’ve just nailed together the peices and been done with it.”

“What would you rather I do? If I didn’t spend hours working on the details of that chair, then what do you suggest I spend the hours on?” Jack said pointedly. Mark leaned back and stared up at the sky.

“I don’t know.”

Jack smiled. “I’m proud of my work. I like having detail in it. If I just slap chunks of wood together- or if I was to just lop off a piece of a trunk and use that as a seat- then I have nothing to be proud of. I’ve accomplished nothing.”

“But the details will wear. They’ll get worn down and fade away and eventually it’ll be like you never spent the time on it at all,” Mark argued.

“Then I’ll have to appreciate it even more while it’s here.”

They were silent, staring at the sky. It had faded to night, and it was a dark moon, so the stars seemed all the more vivid in the lack of other light.

“I’ll fade and eventually it’ll be like I never spent time here at all,” Jack finally said. He’d steadily been pouring them ale through the evening, and the cask was empty.

“You don’t have children to remember you?”

“No.”

“Nor a wife.”

“Nor a wife,” Jack agreed. “My work is my one true love, at this point in my life.”

“Then maybe it’s more important that you do spend time making your work beautiful and detailed. It may outlive you.”

“You’ll outlive me. Twice-over, thrice-over, who knows how long you’ll live.”

“Then you have someone to remember you.” Mark’s eyes seemed dewy liquid in the faint light of night, and the imbibed alcohol made them appear larger and more inviting. “I’ll remember you.”

Jack smiled. “Just like the engravings on the chair, time will wear that away.”

“I promise it won’t.”

The moment stretched long and thin, like a bead of sap between parting fingers- stretching, stretching, straining to retain the connection.

“Yes, you’ll remember that crazy woodcarver who lived alone in a cabin for giants at the edge of the forest, who tried to chop down a tree while you were still in the branches,” Jack said, joking, breaking the seriousness of the moment.

“That’s not what I’ll remember you for,” Mark said, and the connection remained unbroken.

When Mark went to leave, it was late, both of them bleary-eyed but lingering, not wanting to part. “How am I to find you again? Will you remain in the black walnut tree because that’s the one place I know?” Jack asked.

Mark looked thoughtful. “Comfortable as that tree is, I don’t exactly want to live there. I’ve got a better idea.” He stretched an arm up, and Jack felt a stab of amazement as he plucked a star from the sky.

No, not a star. A firefly.

It blinked softly in his palm, placid and unafraid of the witch’s grasp.

“These will bring you to me, whenever you ask. They won’t fear you,” Mark assured Jack, holding out the firefly.

Jack carefully held out his palm, scared to pick it up in case he was to crush the fragile insect between his fingers, and Mark poured it into his palm. It stayed contentedly on his hand, as fearless of him as it was of Mark.

“Visit me whenever you wish.”

“I wish to visit you all the time,” Jack breathed, then blushed. He hadn’t intended to voice that. Mark’s face broke into a wide smile, and he brushed his fingers down Jack’s jaw. The gesture was too quick for Jack to respond, and then Mark was gone, but Jack remembered the simple touch with perfect clarity for the rest of the night, and all the following day.

It was the very next night that he used the firefly to find Mark again.

And the night after that, he used the next firefly he’d been given.

And so it went. Nearly every night, he found Mark. Occasionally, Mark would return with him to the cabin, and Jack would cook for them. If the frequency of Jack’s appearances irritated Mark, he didn’t say anything, nor did he cease giving him fireflies. It went on as such, until one day when snow was falling. It wasn’t the first snowfall of the year, but it had yet to remain cold enough to accumulate.

Jack followed the most recent firefly out into the forest, across the river, and into the part of the woods he’d begun to recognize as Mark’s, and found the witch standing on the ground, back-to, hands folded behind his back, looking up at the snow. Jack hesitated, unwilling to disturb the beautiful tableau. The soft snow on Mark’s sharp-looking hair was like something out of a painting, and he looked so at ease in nature, like he was a tree as well, collecting snow. So perfect was his fit into the scene that it seemed almost startling when he moved, turning to face Jack.

“Winter is here. This snow will stay,” Mark said. Jack knew he wasn’t just guessing- he was certain.

“I want to still come in the snow,” Jack said stubbornly, but Mark shook his head.

“I won’t lose you to wintertime. We both know you shouldn’t, as winter truly settles in, as the cold seeps into trees and houses and bones, and the snow piles into drifts, and the white claims us all.”

Jack stepped forward. And another step. Again, until he was well within what was considered appropriate personal space.

Mark had often given him small gestures, little touches here and there. A brush of the back of his hand against Jack’s cheek, his fingers squeezing Jack’s own fingers, bumping shoulders, sitting with their legs pressed against each other, but Jack had never initiated, never really reciprocated.

He cupped a hand under Mark’s chin. “I don’t think I can go days without seeing you, let alone months. I’ll miss you,” he said gently, letting his emotion show plainly on his face.

Mark’s eyes matches his affection, his pain, and he covers Jack’s hand with his.

“I fear losing you for good. You’re… fragile. Mortal.”

“I’m stronger than I look.”

“I still worry about you. And… I would rather go through the pain of your temporary absence than experience true loss.”

“Greedy.”

“Yes,” Mark laughed, and turned to press a kiss to Jack’s palm.

Jack had spent a great amount of time staring at Mark’s lips, but he’d yet to come in contact with them, and that was the only touch he was to get that evening. He finally left with a heavy heart, and his fingers loosely folded over his palm, as if to keep the kiss.

He didn’t have a firefly.

But he had the kiss.

He slept badly, cold and reaching and restless, and the next day seemed gray and listless. He tried to work, but his heart wasn’t in it, so it was almost a relief when the sun began to set and the day was ending. He felt sleep wouldn’t come, so instead retired to the porch to sit and drink. But his eyes kept straying to the other chair- he’d begun to call it Mark’s chair.

Motionless, he watched the sun go down, and the moon come up, and wondered what kind of a winter it would be. He swatted at a bug by his ear. And then again. It buzzed insistently-

No, wait.

Why were there bugs in the wintertime?

He jumped to his feet, the drag and drab of the day leaving him in a rush, and he felt as buoyant as if he could take flight. He dashed around his house, to the back, where the forest was-

A stream of fireflies was flowing from the trees, and behind them was Mark. The wind was cold and biting, but it felt like a caress to Jack.

“Might I share your warmth?” Mark asked coyly, alighting so close to Jack that their toes nearly touched.

Jack didn’t bother with words- he just gathered the airy witch into his arms and kissed him full on the mouth. It was like spring and flight, and breath. Ale and bark, walnuts and feathers. Mark.

“My home is your home,” Jack finally said, when they broke apart. “Though, were you just asking for the fireflies? Did they drag you here?”

Mark laughed, and they were both a little giddy. “We all agreed. If they chose to drag me here, I’m sure they could- there are enough of them. You know, these are all the fireflies I’ve given you. One for each moment.”

Jack’s yard was nearly glittering with them.

“I want there to be hundreds. Thousands.”

“And there can be. Though, visiting would imply separation, first. And I was thinking-,”

“This big house is awful to live in alone,” Jack said intently. “I want someone to cook for. To share my life with. And I know it’s a short life, but it’s all I’ve got. All I’ve got, I want you to have it.”

“How could I refuse? Why would I refuse?” Mark murmured, still in Jack’s embrace. “You live a short life, but it’s a precious thing.”

“Full of details that will fade and erode to nothing,” Jack sighed.

“And it’s everything to be proud of. I’ll savor every moment. I promise I’ll remember it all.”

And so they lived, in a wood cabin at the edge of the forest, full of details and air and love.

And fireflies.


End file.
